the sights, shapes and scents of life

“wisdom comes to us when it can no longer do any good.” 
― gabriel garcí­a márquez, love in the time of cholera

going to this particular shopping mall depresses her.

maybe it's the old linoleum tiles whose colours don't match at all (some are white, some are orange, others green. put together randomly as though the workers are tripping on drugs), or the toilets that have no tissue papers and smell of piss all the time, or the young men and women who distract your quiet contemplation of what to buy by grabbing your arms and offering you pirated dvds, others to give you flyers announcing the availability of newly constructed condominiums and houses that are available at "affordable" installment schemes.

she also dislikes the very bright lighting, the plastic plants and flowers, the stench of cigarette smoke, body odour and sweat. the whole place reminds her of an old, dying man. the smell of death is unbearable. she wonders when will the owners have the decency to have it repaired, refurbished, redecorated, restructured, reengineered so that it will look spankingly new like a debutant in her new couture dress flown directly from paris.

just getting off her car at the parking lot already tests her patience. the parking is a breeze. there are too many spaces available, especially in early afternoon when she usually shops. but what ruins her day are the children with their famished eyes and dirty nails who will run towards her begging for money, as though she is mother theresa reincarnated, or a certain government official in orange shirt and black pants carrying very heavy red cross cans full of coins.

she used to give money to these kids, of course. even food. but once, she gave them one peso coins and one or two of them cursed her. called her names. "kuripot!" after that, she refused to give them anything. not even food. even if she felt bad about it.

then at the door, a security guard would stop her to check on her bag. frisk her. as though these guards have any idea what they are searching or looking for. she always feels violated every time guards do this. though she understands that it's not their fault at all. especially at the airports. that is why she traveled less frequently in and out of the country after the airport security had been tightened, even requiring passengers not only to be frisked by the guards at the gate, but also ordering them to remove their shoes, belts, etc. she hates doing all of these.

this mall has simply become another reminder of the grim reality of living in a country whose economy, while growing at a faster clip than most of its neighbours in recent years, remains among the poorest and most corrupt, and badly-managed in the region.

but she has no choice but to stay in the country and live. her mother needs here. she has no other choice either than to shop at this mall. it's the nearest to where she is staying for the moment.

***********

anyway, today she needs to buy some groceries and food supply. her mother, who is as strict as her retired military officer of a husband (bless his soul), is arriving in a few days and she needs to stock her pantry with groceries and her fridge with food. otherwise, she will not stop nagging her about going back home and staying with her in their old house. nobody is taking care of you here. you don't even have food other than biscuits, she would often say, as though she is a fifteen year old girl living at the university's dormitory.

one time, fed up with her nagging, she shouted at her mother: "enough! i am no longer a child, mother!" with emphasis on "child!". her mother, still hefty at eighty, cried for hours and had stopped talking to her for months after that. the old woman even refused to stay with her every time she was in the city for her regular monthly check up with her doctors.

since then, she has been very careful not to trigger her mother's sometimes ill temper. especially when it comes to stocking up on food and and other edible supplies. days before she arrives, she would make sure that she has enough food, particularly healthy ones, in her tiny, one-bedroom flat.

her relationship with her mother has always been stormy and unpredictable. ever since she can remember.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

while the mall saddens her, she feels alive inside its well-stocked, well-stacked supermarket.

she took the plastic blue basket from the entrance of the supermarket. the one she could carry on her hands. she hates using the cart. she always feels like she has to fill it all up with groceries. the cart. as a result, some of the food gets spoiled: the white eggs turn blue, the vegetables turn brown, the milk stinks, the coffee no longer soluble. because there is simply no way that she can consume them all before their expiry dates. or before the vegetables and fruits wither. even if her mother, who hardly eats, by the way, is around.

it was a quiet afternoon. there were not much shoppers. she loves this time of the day to shop. she hates it when she has to share a shelf with five other people because by then she would be pressured to hurry up and pick some stuff because she feels like she is holding up the line if she stays longer and examine the goods before putting them on her basket.

she loves to linger on shelves, admiring their orderly arrangements. she likes looking at well-stacked, well-arranged shelves. sometimes, she would even take out her iphone and take photos of these shelves.  she loves looking at new products, new labels, examining cans and bottles, reading their expiration dates, the ingredients. she can't do all of these when there's a crowd.

sometimes, she would even correct the spelling and the grammar of tags, obviously handwritten by supermarket personnel. that's why she always brings with her blue, black and red pentel pens. in her former life, she must have been a school teacher.

but one thing she hates is stopping by the fresh meat and seafoods section. she dislikes the smell of fish. of shrimps. of crabs. of shells. of pork. of chicken. especially the frozen ones sealed safely inside plastic bags. she does not like touching and holding frozen meats. their icy feel repulses her. she doesn't want to be reminded how they look like before they are cooked. that's why every time she shops for pork, chicken, fish, etc, she ends up not eating them even if it's her mother who cooks them. her mother is simply one of the best cooks in the family.

it's a different matter for vegetables and fruits. she just loves them. she likes staring at their different vibrant colours -- yellow, green, red, white, orange. she loves their plumpness. their softness. their smooth skins. their roundness. their lengths. their scents. their sticky juices. she loves putting them inside the plastic bags and watching the supermarket clerks weigh them correctly on the scale. then the price tags would be attached on the plastic bags.

she admires how efficient the sales staff. how they seem to enjoy what they're doing even if it means standing up the whole day, receiving below minimum wage, working on holidays without an overtime pay, wearing tacky uniforms, being shouted at by irate, unreasonable, ill-mannered customers. they smile a lot. they help a lot. somehow, she wants to be one of them.  doing menial jobs that don't require much critical thinking. their simplicity astonishes her.

(ah she remembers when she was little. she wanted to be a librarian. so she could be surrounded by rows and rows of well-arranged books all day. she loves the scent of the pages of books, especially the newly printed ones. she could read all the books that she wanted and she would still be paid for it. how's that for loving one's job?)

these things, these simple acts, gestures, movements of her hands and feet, of walking, browsing, reading, smelling, relax her. calm her nerves. give her a sense of peace.

finally, here is a place where she can make her own decisions. where she is in control.

put it simply, the supermarket reminds her of life. of the different shapes, sights and scents of all creatures. of the order of things. of who are below and way above in the food chain. of who and what should be taken, bought, weighed, stuffed, kept, sacrificed, picked, pealed, boiled, cooked, swallowed, eaten, ravished, owned, just so the stronger of the species could survive.

in the supermarket, carina at least feels a certain peace that has eluded her for years. this is where she feels alive, where she feels her heartbeat and pulse quickening as though she is an adolescent girl seeing the man of her technicolour dreams. for the first time.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

mrs. sta cruz was awakened by the soft pattering of rain on the glass window. of the cool breeze coming from the mountains. her room is facing the mountain at the back of her house. as far as she can recall, she always sleeps with the windows open, even on stormy nights, even if her then alive husband protested about it because to his security-conscious, military-drilled mind, it isn't safe.

what if burglars come in and kill us while we are asleep? he would ask. which she would retort: who would dare venture into our compound when everyone in this village knows you keep an armory? then they would both have a hearty laugh. then he would kiss her, either on the forehead or on the cheek. never on the lips, except when they're making love. ah how she misses him.

but apart from missing her husband, who died two years ago when the old car he was driving fast smashed directly on a truck on the opposite lane, brutally killing him instantly, mrs. sta cruz had other urgent things in mind at the moment: first, she has to pack for her trip to the city to visit her daughter, carina. then she needs to call her niece to take care of the house while she is away. she simply doesn't trust her army of maids. she's afraid that they might throw a party and invite all the good-for-nothing boys in the neighbourhood for a night of drinking and god know's what else, sullying her well-maintained home.

mrs. sta cruz still treats her forty-five-year-old daughter like a high school girl. she worries about her all the time. she's a loner, her daughter, seems not to have any interest in finding a "suitable" husband and having her own children. too bad, she thinks, that her only son, arthur, carina's older brother, died when he was only seventeen when the motorbike he was driving fell off a cliff. carina was only five then, too young to remember his older brother.

she should have listened to her husband years ago, when they were both younger, to have at least four children. but at that time, busy with her business, mrs sta cruz simply didn't have the interest, the energy, nor the stamina to have more children. too, she was getting old and got tired easily. after carina was born, her business, exporting rattan furniture to europe and the united states, simply boomed, further keeping her from the business of getting pregnant. but her husband understood her.

sometimes, when she is alone like this, when there's not much to do but to contemplate about her life and that of her daughter, mrs sta cruz couldn't help but wish that instead of arthur being taken by god at such an early stage of his life, why not carina? she always feels bad, guilty and hurt every time she has these thoughts. she loves her daughter, of course, the sweet, innocent carina whose only mission in life is to please her mother, her friends, the people around her.

but if it were arthur who had lived, then by now she would have several grandchildren who would visit her every weekend, who will stay with her to cheer her up during those lonesome christmas and new year holidays. why him? mrs sta cruz sometimes asks the lord jesus christ hanging on the cross, as well as the virgin mary beside him and the image of our mother of perpetual help every wednesday, friday and sunday when she goes to church.

these days, she does nothing but to go to the church, visit a friend or relative in the hospital or in the funeral parlour, and keep an eye on her daughter in the city once a month. most of mrs sta cruz' friends and cousins (she is an only child) are now dead. the few remaining ones are either too weak to go out or are already in their death beds waiting for the dark angel to take them.

that is why every time the black telephone rings (hers is perhaps the only house in the village that still has a landline. everyone else relies on the internet and on their mobile phones to communicate with the outside world), she is frightened, feels cold, chilly. afraid that somebody is calling to inform her that a close friend or a relative has died. she loathes and at the same time anticipates the ringing of the phone. she wants to know. she wants to stay connected. she is still, after all, alive.

why me, oh lord, why am i still alive? she would sometimes ask. why do i have to suffer the loneliness of losing my husband, my family, my friends?

she rose from her bed, dismissed her silly thoughts, and started packing for things that she would need in the city. she planned to stay longer this time, maybe about a month or more. she doesn't care if it would send her daughter to the mad house, or cause her hair to turn grey prematurely. this time, she is determined to fix her daughter's life. even if she still doesn't know how. even if it means she needs to get the help of god, any god, or the devil, for that matter, she would.

&&&&&&&&&&&

carina was cooking her mother's chicken and pork adobo recipe when her cellphone, which she put at the tiny table beside the gas range, rang. the cellphone actually stood out beside tomatoes, eggplants, onions, garlic, squash, that she was slicing and peeling. she was cooking another of her mother's dish, pinakbet. she wants to practice cooking them before she arrives in a few days.

after drying her hand with the towel that was lying on the table, along with a dozen or so vegetables that she had washed and cut, she picked up the phone.

"hello."

a stranger's voice. a man. "carina?"

"yes."

(unfinished. april six, nine twenty two in the morning.)